*SCREECH—! CLANG!!!*
The battered Santana scraped violently against the rusted rear gate of the Health Bureau compound, tearing through desiccated black leaves with a metallic shriek as it wedged into the cramped space.
“Damn! Here! Back entrance!” Driver Lao Zhao’s face was corpse-pale, sweat beading his temples, greasy hands strangling the wheel. “Third floor! Left! Hurry! Director Lin’s detonating! NOW!” The engine roared futilely, exhaust fumes billowing over piled trash boxes, unleashing a stench of cheap diesel.
Zhang Chi’s mind buzzed, the hellish intersection scene still flashing—torch flames, frenzied crowds pounding quarantine tankers, the blood-red placards (“SURRENDER THE HEALER!” “WHERE IS YANG XIAOCHUAN?!”) seared onto her retinas! Fingers numb with cold, trembling
